


Nyx

by incacola



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Acxa is Keith's sister, Altean Lance (Voltron), Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Space Opera, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Divine Deities, Galra Keith (Voltron), Galtean AU, Gay Keith (Voltron), M/M, Mixed Keith (Voltron), Sci-fantasy, Slow Burn, Soul Bond, Telepathic Bond, don't worry though he isn't associated in any way with the Galra Empire that's just his heritage, it's the odyssey but also dante's paradiso plus voltron
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 13:03:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16450475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incacola/pseuds/incacola
Summary: In a war-stricken universe, divided into four Winds, half-Galra Keith keeps away from the fight. When he gets bound to an Altean merchant by accident, he must work alongside him to win a war they didn't sign up for against the cruelest empire of all to release the bond.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> SO. i was not going to post this until it was all finished like i did with my other fic, but since the vld fandom is quickly becoming extinct it's goin' up now lol.
> 
> it's a fantasy story set in space, so it's definitely an alternate universe! expect epic quest and mythical creatures! it's gonna be one bitch of a ride!
> 
> big thank you to AO3 user @argentia for beta-ing the prologue + 1st chapter! i couldn't have done it without your help!
> 
> *cw for in-story racism*
> 
> NOTE: the prologue is OC heavy, but you don't have to really understand it (yet) and the 1st chapter is much clearer!
> 
> that's it! let's get this bread!

  


### Prologue

 

The last Galra on Western ground was a certain lieutenant Haxus.

Oxi, the last planet to be conquered, had been turned into a scarred land by the lasting battle, and not much of its natives survived the fight. The Oxian night, lasting around 90 quintents, proved to be a harsh condition to fight in, engulfing the fighting forces, and obscuring the battle with clouds and the smell of something sharp in the air, the night sky becoming an enemy to the Western troops as well.

Haxus was slender, boney shoulders and a large ribcage and a long, uneven face that looked more fitting for a war meeting than the battle itself. Still, he fought ceaselessly with a cruel sword, shining with Western blood. The ground had been matted with it – Western blood, Galra blood, and all the rest. The soil did not care – it accepted every fallen soldier, and the battlefield was littered with them.

“There are no winners in this war, Saeriel,” his own right-hand, Idrix, said, lowering his magnifying glass and rubbing at the inner corner of his yellow eye. Saeriel didn't know if he was indifferent or just tired. Regardless, that wasn't what he wanted to hear. He didn't know what was.

Beneath the tower, another Galra fell to the ground, and Haxus laughed cruelly. The Western troops were closing in, crowding him, four at a time from each direction. He carried himself sloppily, his walk unbalanced, until he fell to his knees, spitting blood at the soldiers surrounding him.

“You will never gain anything of me while I live. I will tell you nothing,” he hissed, laughing through bloodstained teeth. “My knowledge lives and dies with the Galra Empire. Vrepit sa. To victory!”

The battle had gotten to him – he was going mad. Saeriel wondered if he would come to share the same fate – he wondered if he already had. The three moons of Oxi were completely bare in a rare instance, looming over curiously, hauntingly beautiful over a scarred land only watered by bloodshed.

“He does not hold any sanity,” Idrix said, turning away. “Your Highness, please just turn away – our work here is finished.”

But Saeriel remained still, watching as Haxus rolled and roared with laughter. “I want _him_ to kill me!” he called, pointing right at the highest window of the tower with the tip of his sword, his owl-like eyes fixed on Saeriel. “Why let the people do your dirty job, your majesty?” he spat, mocking. “Be polite now and kill me. Kill me like I killed your subjects. It is only fair.”

Haxus began kicking at the scattered bodies, laughing hysterically. Saeriel drew his longbow.

The three moons in the sky were silent witnesses. “This war has no winners,” he determined. “But tonight we have prevailed.”

The arrow entered right beneath Haxus’s jaw, and a new dawn was bound to rise over the West.

  
  
  
  
  


#### Part One

  


### I

_SIX DECA-PHOEBS LATER_

 

The sky was raining fire.

Keith hissed a curse; he had meant to fly off before that would happen, and yet there he was, knee deep in mud and rock and shit, pick in hand against a sapphire wall with nothing above him but a murky sky and poisonous clouds.

The rain had begun piercing into his suit – he knew it because he could smell his flesh burning through it, could see the wispy lines of smoke rising from his dirty-gray sleeves, mocking him, as he tried to peel more precious stones off the wall. It used to be a cave, according to the sensor of his ship. Also according to it, it melted by the acid rain – and so would he, if he didn't hurry up.

Behind him, the ship began beeping in alarm. The rain slid off of its surface with traces of the leftover red paint, smoking and bubbling like venom, and Keith knew it wouldn't be long until the damage was permanent. Then again, he knew it the moment he sank into the foreign atmosphere of Zypher, the gloomiest, ugliest planet the universe could puke at him.

Though, Keith supposed he deserved it – asteroid miners should know better than barging into planets, especially those with shitty weathers – it was the first rule of the job. But Zypher offered more sapphires than any asteroid could, and if eating a proper dinner meant Keith had to swim in mud and get fried by rain for a bunch of shiny rocks, he was willing to dive in.

In his dirty glove, the sapphires gleamed, delicate droplets. The raindrops were fire, and the rocks were raindrops. That was what became of a prosperous planet after the Galra sucked the life out of it. It didn't matter anymore – he had collected what he came for, and with boots full of mud, he ran inside his beeping spaceship. By then, the dirty fabric of his suit was dotted with holes the size of bullets.

 

The Western Market smelled like death, which meant it was buzzing with life.

Keith stayed away from the peculiar shacks and stands, selling mostly vibrant food and equipment for travelers – that was all the crowd of the market needed anyway, being comprised by no one other than bypassers. Instead, Keith took the path he knew by heart, behind all the fuss, until he stopped by a pile of trash.

It was the bad side of the market, where he was standing, if there ever was a good side to begin with. On his right, there was a butcher's shop, and the butchered meat stank to the high heavens. On his left, there were three different brothels. It was the bad side, but Keith spent enough time in that stench of an atmosphere to not feel uneasy. He began distractedly scraping the mud off his boots with a stick he found on the ground.

That was when his buyer came, smiling shamelessly, an ugly crooked smile, at the sight of the women walking around. He was a middle-aged man with sickly blue skin and a dark satin suit that was clearly unfit in the poor environment of the market, and when he was done looking at bodies like he would at shiny trophies, he turned to look at Keith like he was one with the corpses of ferrets hanging from the butcher's stand.

Then he spit on the ground next to Keith's feet, leaving him staring blankly ahead.

The man shrugged. “They say it's good luck spitting by half-breeds,” he simply said, his voice croaky and heavy. “Or aren't you, you Galra fuck?”

Keith stared him down for a moment longer, before tilting his chin up and raising the pouch in his hand. “What you asked for,” he said.

The man weighed the pouch in his hand, then dug inside it with the tips of his fingers, examining. “You said you’ll get rubies, too,” he said finally.

Keith placed his hand cautiously on top of the bag. “If you don't like it –“

“Who said I don't?” the man laughed, an ugly sound from the back of his throat. “You Galra, so hasty. How much do you want?”

“Eight steel, four gold,” Keith said, lidded eyes remaining focused.

The man shifted his jaw as if he were tasting something sour, but ultimately he proved too proud to bargain. Wrinkling his nose, he fished the inner pocket of his coat and gave Keith what he asked for, emptying the sapphire pouch into his own hand.

“Pleasure doing business, halfling,” he said, and Keith walked away into the market before he could spit on his boots again, middle finger held high much to his client’s displeasure.

Flies and birds of prey hoarded the different food stands, and business travelers surrounded the equipment shops, so Keith knew exactly where he needed to go, though it was a long walk down the filthy place until he found it – the tailor's.

It was a small stand showcasing an array of fabrics and clothes, all folded neatly in stacks, separated by color. Normally, Keith would pass by it without a second glance, but his work suit was too damaged to use – even if he were to wear it to a regular asteroid, he would freeze to death before finishing his work. He dropped his bag on the counter, pulling the hole-dotted suit out of it in a ball.

At first, he thought there was no one there to fix it. Looking around, there really was no one to attend customers, only a holographic screen carrying the floating crest of the Western King, the ruler of the West – and then the tailor rose from behind the counter in a leap, so fast Keith was taken by surprise.

He had rich brown skin, like the ambers Keith sometimes collected, and eyes that gleamed a fresh teal, piercing in the warm gray of the market air. His hair was ruffled behind his pointed ears, and it was bright white – on his head, his eyebrows, his lashes. He looked like a character from a fairytale, the type Keith’s mom used to read to him, and as if that wasn’t strange enough, the merchant had two soft V-shaped markings on top of his cheekbones, two tattoos glowing a pale blue.

Keith really was taken aback then – those markings were nothing common, not in these parts of the universe, not anywhere. Behind the stand, the tailor looked just as astounded, his blue-green eyes wide in surprise at Keith.

“Galra,” he mumbled.

“Halfling,” Keith corrected.

They stared at each other for a moment longer, the merchant still swept by surprise, and Keith was beginning to suspect it would end with a clash of their weapons.

Then the tailor snatched Keith's suit off the table, gliding his hand over the fabric carefully, and throwing the occasional wary look at Keith. It seemed like forever before he finally set it back.

“I can fix it,” he declared solemnly.

“How much?” Keith asked.

“I can fix it,” the tailor continued, “If you take an Oath of Integrity.”

He didn't bother explaining further – instead, he placed his open palm before Keith, waiting.

“It ensures virtuous intent from both sides of the deal,” the tailor said, extending his arm to Keith. “Give me your hand to seal it.”

Keith looked at him for another moment. He knew it must have been evident that he didn't believe in it – he didn't believe in any of the religious beliefs that any of the many races scattered across the universe preached, even the ones that supposedly died ten-thousand years ago. _Especially_ those ones.

But Keith had asteroids to mine, and the Altean merchant was the only one around who was able to fix his suit. Warily, he lifted his hand and placed it over the tailor's.

It was a strange sight, a rogue half-Galra and an undead Altean pressing their hands together in agreement. Keith's hand, usually a light lavender color, looked oddly vibrant, violet, over the Altean's amber skin.

At first, nothing happened at all. Then, their hands began to glow – a soft blue, not unlike the hue of the tailor's marks on the tops of his cheeks. Keith swallowed, eyes wide – he would have torn his hand away if it didn't feel stuck, physically stuck, skin clinging to skin, powerful and electric.

Then the tailor spoke – his words were melodic, musical, and it stirred something painful in Keith's chest. It was an ancient tongue, but one that Keith – not knowing how – understood, and it made him feel like he was standing with the tailor in the eye of a storm of clear water.

“By the voice of the void,” he sang, the words old and foreign.

Like through smoke, Keith noticed that the holographic screen behind the tailor turned to static. Then, it began flashing in red. “by the dust in the skies,” the Altean continued.

“Something’s wrong,” Keith mumbled, like through a dream. Someone behind him screamed – then another, and another one, and one more.

The boy held his eyes shut tight, keeping his hand spread beneath Keith’s. “Let this oath bind our virtues and –“

A screeching horn pierced through the dense market air, cutting the Altean's chant short. He blinked, and their skin stopped glowing at once. Keith's hand felt scorched to all hell, but when he looked at it – finally able to remove it from the tailor's – it was free of harm.

Keith could see no soul remaining quiet or staying in place around him. Every holographic screen that carried the royal symbol was flashing red – every person was crying out. People were dropping their bags, shop owners leaving their stands behind, all in favor of running or finding shelter, all in favor of staying alive. The panic was gritty and unbearable and impossible, and it could only mean one thing – the troops failed to hold the blockade. The Western line was breached.

“Galra,” the people screamed. “ _Galra_.”

The merchant grabbed his hand all of a sudden, pressing it under his own again. “Let this oath bind our virtues and never our lies,” he whispered, eyes shut hard, like a childish wish.

His magic didn't respond. “By the voice of the void, by the dust of the skies, let this – this oath bind –“

Keith tore his hand away. “There's no time for this,” he said.

The tailor clung to him with his wide blue eyes, just when the shooting began.

Bright purple and blinding, beams from all around began tearing through the air like supernovas, breaking stands and scorching the ground, filling the air with smoke and screams with every weapon fired. Before he could think it through, Keith leaped behind the stand in one smooth jump, pulling the tailor with him.

The blasts were insufferable, each harder than the one before, and Keith didn't know how much longer the brittle tailor stand could bear them.

“This can't be,” the tailor muttered, placing his fingers over his mouth. “The Western King assured this will never happen, that they will never cross the border. The Western Wind – they've never touched the Western Wind.”

“Not until today,” Keith said darkly.

A blast sent burnt pieces of fabric over their heads; Keith covered his head with his hands. The tailor looked too upset to even do that, clutching to his knees, trembling. It was too fucking much for Keith, and he was more than willing to scamper away already.

“Listen to me,” Keith found himself saying, voice low and grave. “Do you have a ship?”

The Altean looked at him for a moment, as if not understanding his words.

“A ship,” Keith repeated, urgent, his hands balled in fists. “Do you have one?”

He nodded, though his eyes were so watery and unfocused that Keith wasn't sure he had heard him at all.

“This is what you're going to do.” Keith seized him by the shoulders, shaking him lightly until his eyes were locked with his own. “You're going to wait for the next blast. That should release enough smoke to create a diversion. When that happens, you run to your ride, I'll run to mine. Do you understand?”

The boy swallowed. He blinked, and two tears ran down his cheeks. Then, he nodded.

Keith didn't have the time to make sure he understood – right then, an explosion broke the air, leaving a high-pitched buzz in his ears. The stand that served as their shield gave out, snapping into a thousand pieces, and smoke poured like fog all around.

Keith scattered to his feet, heavy boots hitting hard against the burning ground, running as fast as he could.

And then he stopped in place. He didn't mean to – he could have kept running across the whole market twice if he had to – but something was keeping him back, like an invisible force field, a barrier, a limit. No, like a string, pulling him back. Pulling him to the Altean.

The smoke was thinning out – in a moment, Keith would have no curtain protecting him from the Galra soldiers, and he would be met by a quick death from a laser beam. He turned around, to the boy – he was standing paralyzed, too, hand still covering his mouth.

“The Oath,” he called at Keith, voice shaky. “The bond, it was unfinished – it must have linked us – _let this oath bind our virtues_.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Keith heard himself say, voice echoey and dull courtesy of the ringing in his ears.

“It means you're dust, boy.”

Keith turned just in time to see the Galra soldier behind him. He was a higher-up – Keith could tell by his uniform – and he was smiling, a vicious, scarred smile, like lightning on his pale violet face.

Keith threw himself on the ground just as he began firing. His limbs hurt from the blast, and the ground was jagged and burning hot – but he forced his forearms to heave him forward, forward, his skin screaming for help. It was a new level of torture – suddenly Keith missed Zypher's acid rain – and by the time he managed to crawl to the tailor, his eyes were welled by tears.

“Your ship,” Keith managed, voice raspy, struggling to lift himself up to his feet. “Take me to your fucking ship.”

The boy blinked; then, he grabbed Keith by his bleeding forearms, and pulled him away from the rubble. There was no barrier constricting them that time, and when they finally got to his ship, Keith almost felt better.

And then he collapsed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok. i KNOW i am the worst in updating on schedule, but in my defense it was nanowrimo! which means this story is over 50k words long! you might notice that i have made 30 the total chapter number - so far it's just a placeholder for the actual quantity which is yet to be known, so don't expect exactly 30! (everyone sighs in relief collectively).
> 
> again, big big thanks to [@argentia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/argentia/pseuds/argentia) for betaing this chapter, too!!!
> 
> P.S.: you can find me at @ coralfor on tumblr + @ mlmkirk on twitter!

  
  


### II

 

Keith felt his consciousness return with a hum.

It was a melody, a song, and it made some forgotten part of him feel achingly hollow. And then he woke all at once, like rising from underwater, breath unstable.

The Altean boy was sitting next to him, and Keith's first instinct was to reach for his knife. He thought the tailor must be pretty fucking stupid to not dismantle him of his weapon – but then, when his knuckles were white around the glowing, violet blade and it was raised before the merchant boy's face – Keith felt his wrist going slack, like he didn't have the will to hold the knife to him any longer. It slid off of his grip, falling to the floor with a  _ clang _ .

“So this is it? You've taken me captive with your Altean sorcery?” Keith asked. His voice was hoarse, and when he tried to cross his arms, a blinding pain took over him, painting his eyesight with blotches of red and black, so deep he thought he might faint again.

“May I remind you that it was you who invited yourself in?” the boy said, frowning lightly, his white eyebrows furrowed. “Now quit moving, I was tending to your wounds before you tried to kill me.”

“Precautions,” Keith answered, but he stopped moving reluctantly.

They were inside a bedroom, one much nicer than the one in Keith's ship, floor and walls all coated with silver save for a horizontal stripe glowing blue, the same blue of the boy's eyes, the same blue of the crescent moons on his cheekbone.

Keith was sitting on a bed – he assumed that was where the Altean had laid him down in his unconscious state – but he pointedly refused to lie back down, even if the muscles of his neck were pleading it at the rhythm of his pulse.

The boy was holding a cloth to his back from beneath his burnt shirt, and Keith had to simply shake his shoulders for the crisped clothing to tear off completely, leaving him bare and cold. The tailor could stick a knife in Keith's back right now, could kill him in a hundred different ways, but something in Keith told him that the dismantling worked both ways.  _ Bound by virtue _ , the merchant had said. They couldn't harm each other.

Somehow, that wasn't a comfort for Keith. His back stung; his arms burnt; his stomach screamed. He was a perfect harmony of pain, and when the boy sang again, he felt, in a rather self-pitying manner, like he was in some kind of twisted play where the universe spitting on him was the theater.

“Stop singing,” Keith muttered.

“I'm not,” the boy protested. “Those are the Words of Healing. I'm curing you.”

Keith halfway turned to him with his eyebrow raised, but the boy misunderstood, and moved his hands over to Keith's chest, hovering lightly over his skin. Keith felt something cold pour over him, and he huffed in surprise. It was a short sting, and then nothing, and when Keith looked down at his torso, it was clean of all the heavy wounds.

“The minor bruises remain,” the boy explained. “You have a lot of them – have you been under acid rain by occasion?”

Keith made a point to ignore him, and it worked for a while – the Altean fluttering his hands over Keith's back and chest and arms, making Keith's skin prickle with cold and heal.

Then the boy turned to heal his arms. They were covered in red and black, and Keith could see how the trails of dried blood running up to his elbow shrank away slowly, as if evaporating into the air. That hurt – Keith grunted and tore away, face sour with sharp pain – but the Altean kept going. Keith's jaw was clenched tight, and his eyes were welled with tears, but with every syllable the boy sang, Keith's skin became better, glowing and cold over his tired muscles.

“Why are you healing me?” Keith asked, eyes focused on the blue markings contrasting the tailor's amber skin. “We can't break your useless oath. We can't run, we can't harm, I get it. You don't have to heal me.”

The boy stopped then, looking up at Keith, eyes lidded and bitter behind silver lashes. “Who would I be if I don't?” he said.

Keith didn't know how to answer that. Instead, he said, “Your ship's moving. Where are we going?”

The boy plopped back onto the bed. He was clearly tired – Keith didn't know how much of that was from healing him. It was the perfect opportunity to strike. Keith lifted his knife from the ground; then he put it back in his belt. Useless.

“Vexper,” he mumbled. “I'm taking us to a Wayfinder.”

Keith laughed at that, and the sound was more bitter than he intended. The boy frowned. “Wayfinders are guides,” he said.

“Wayfinders are nothing but cryptic, lazy spirits,” Keith protested. “They're as useless as the old nebulae they guard.”

The tailor was sitting up now, appearing slightly offended. “Wayfinders are messengers,” he said, annoyed. “Angels. And so far, they're our best chance of getting rid of the bond the Oath created.”

“You're Altean,” Keith said, rather petty, crossing his arms now that he could. “Why can't you do it?”

He was silent at first. Then, he picked something up from the floor and placed it on the bed. “Your suit,” he said. “Free of charge.”

Keith felt something in him sink, leaving a sour taste in his mouth.

 

Keith hated to admit it, but the Vexper nebula was glorious.

It was a blaze of fiery dust, ancient and beautiful, stretching and spreading across the black vastness like a sheet of gold. When the ship finally began edging near it, it was like being swallowed by a cloud of sparks.

Keith didn't leave the room – he felt like walking through the door would bring him some sense of defeat, and he wasn't ready to wear that proudly, not when he could be done with the Oath business in moments.

Eventually, the ship stopped dead, drifting aimlessly between clusters of orange stars, and Keith  _ had _ to leave the room. The space beyond the door was a hallway, painted the same silver of the bedroom, and it had four different paths branching out from it.

Keith looked around, considering which way he should take. With the hum of the engine gone, he was able to pick up on softer sounds, further sounds. For a moment, he thought he heard music – a gentle voice singing along to a smooth musical instrument he had never heard before, coming from his left. He took one step down the southern corridor, after the sound, when a weight dropped on his shoulder.

Keith's knife was in his hand when he turned on an instinct, but it dropped to the ground as soon as he turned around, a breath away from the Altean. That time it was plain frustrating.

He frowned at that. “Can you please stop doing that?” he said, taking a step back. “I'm the only one on this ship.”

“The only person?” Keith asked, squaring his shoulders like preparing for a fight. “Or the only Altean?”

“Both,” the boy said, eyes lidded and serious. Then, he took the corridor ahead. “We need to hurry. Wayfinders are slippery.”

“That's one word for it,” Keith said, picking his knife back up and scurrying after him. “What do you plan on telling it?  _ I fucked my ancient magic up and now I'm chained to an asteroid miner? _ ”

The boy said nothing, still walking ahead, strands of his white hair curling around the collar of his shirt. It was a formal one, an  _ Altean _ formal one, and Keith wondered for a second if he was dreaming it all. Naturally, he kept talking.

“Of course, you'd have to tell him how we got into this mess in the first place,” Keith said, only half-aware of the words coming out of his mouth. “How a creature from an era long past ended up in a marketplace ten-thousand years after all his people were –“

“By Nyx, do you ever shut up?” The boy shot, turning at once, causing Keith to halt on the heels of his boots with a gritting screech from the polished floors. “I am not a creature,” he continued, tilting his chin up, his light eyebrows drawn together in a furrow. “I am Dux Lance of Altea, and if you wish to return to picking your rocks, I suggest you wear your helmet before that hatch opens.” he pointed at the large metal door, pulling his own suit over his head.

Keith obeyed in silence, slowly, though every part of him wanted to do otherwise.  _ Dux of Altea _ . The sole fact that he had a title bubbled in Keith an uncontrollable urge to push him against a wall, not because of  _ him _ – though that was tempting as well – but because of his kind.

Keith knew his kind of people well, because they were the people he worked with, his buyers. Bourgeois. Stuffed to all hell with money as the people surrounding their set meeting spot in some rotten hellhole the Galra didn't find yet were dying of hunger, or poverty, or disease, or cold. Keith hated them.

He hated them, but he let the wheel roll. In a Galra-plagued universe, you couldn't do much else. He was lucky to eat twice a day. Keeping low earned him those meals, and as much as he hated to admit it, keeping low now would earn him his freedom.

Behind them, a glass door sank shut; before them, the hatch hissed open. They were ejected out – Keith would have long lost the Altean and floated into the emptiness of space if it hadn't been for the bond of the Oath, tying them together and tugging them towards each other like an invisible string.

“What's your name?” the Altean asked then, somehow audible to Keith through what Keith – uncomfortably – imagined was yet another spell. “We need to introduce ourselves to her. It’s part of the ritual.”

Keith looked at him for a moment. “Keith,” he said. “But I doubt my name would mean anything to a Nebula Spirit.”

“An angel,” the boy – Lance – corrected. Then, he turned to the golden stars and said, “Spirit of this sky, we seek you. Lance of Altea, Keith of...” his voice faltered silent, and he turned to look at Keith.

Even with divine deities it was the tradition, apparently. Origins – names and homes. But what was the ritual when someone had a name, but was orphan of a home? If Keith saw the nebula's spirit at that moment, he would have spat on it. Maybe halflings got their good luck from spitting on Wayfinders.

“Keith of the stars,” Keith finished, voice dry.

“Keith of the stars,” Lance repeated. “Come forth and enlighten us.”

Nothing. Absolutely nothing happened, and Keith knew he should have expected it from an estranged, mysterious being such as a Wayfinder, but for some dumb reason in the shape of an Altean prince, he didn't. That fueled him with an anger brighter than the orange stars.

“This idiot got us linked!” Keith screamed, and he felt strangely alone. “Can you fix it or not?”

“ _ I could, _ ” a soft voice hummed behind Keith.

Keith turned, along with the Altean, all at once – only to find nothing there. Nothing but space.

“ _ But I will not. _ ”

This time, the voice came from the other side, and when they turned back, they were met with a woman.

She looked like a normal woman – except her body was red and orange, like an oxygen-rich fire, like liquid stars, and it seemed like it was fading at the edges, blending seamlessly into the night sky like a painting. She was shimmering, glowing brightly like the nebula she was guarding, serene. It almost looked like she was smiling, though her hollow eyes, empty of any sign of life, erased all hints of emotion from her expression.

“Vexper,” Lance mumbled, and Keith wished he didn't sound so hopeful.

“ _ I will not break the Quintessent hex, because it is not meant to be broken – _ ” she continued, but her lips weren't moving. “ _ – Yet. Nyx has chosen a peculiar path for the two of you, but one you must complete. _

_ War has tainted the Goddess’s soul, but it has not broken it. Evil forces have come to destroy my home. The West Wind will be the culmination of this long-aged war, whether it would be in peace, or in destruction. Your bond will be broken – my Wind will be safe – once this evil is wiped off of Nyx for eternity. _

_ Only an alliance between the two suffering can put an end to this war. It is written in the stars, and so it shall be. _ ”

A silence stretched across the fiery nebula, just as vast as it. Keith's eyes were burning and full of tears just from looking at the spirit, but he couldn't look away.

“So it shall be,” Lance mumbled then, his eyes hazy and unfocused.

Then, Keith laughed. He hadn't realized he was doing it until the Altean's eyes were heavying on him, prodding, and he felt dizzy and out of breath, stomach aching.

“With all due respect,” Keith said, still panting, “I think you don't know what the fuck you're talking about.”

“ _ Keith, _ ” the Altean breathed, urgency in his voice.

“I'm not your tragic soldier toy,” Keith spat, now every trace of laughter gone. “You know damn well how to release us of this curse. You know damn well how to end the Galra! You know, and you do nothing, you selfish fucking ghost!”

The only sounds were Lance's heavy breaths. Keith could see from the corner of his eye how he was torn between looking at him and looking at the nebula's spirit. Keith thought he was going to get ripped to shreds right then and there, but Vexper's voice was as soft as before when she spoke.

“ _ Keith, ever the hero, _ ” she said. Keith didn’t understand. “ _ Nyx does not act against one's will. Or did you not seek justice in the name of those who loved you? _ ”

Keith blinked at that, eyes wide. He was sweating – he didn't notice it until it trickled down his lashes, stinging in his eyes.

“ _ And Lance, _ ” she added, turning to Keith's left, “ _ Did you not wish for an opportunity for peace? _ ”

Lance nodded solemnly next to Keith. His lashes were coated with tears.

Vexper really  _ was _ smiling now. “ _ To fulfill the will of Nyx – and your own – you must work together, as one. Seek the help of old friends to reach new places. The Oath will be lifted when your destiny is reality, _ ” she said. “ _ Nyx wishes you good fortune. _ ”

And she vanished into the stars.

Drops of wetness dripped down Keith's cheeks, and he wasn't sure anymore whether they were sweat or tears. He felt breathless, and small, and his chest ached. Lance beside him didn't look any less lost.

He pulled them back into the ship – now Keith could see it clearly, shaped like a giant silver coin, catching the warm light of the stars, and when the hatch closed behind them and the glass door inside opened, Keith poured to the ground, his knees giving, and he – maybe unintentionally, maybe not – letting them.

Lance of Altea dropped before him; Keith felt nauseous as he peeled his suit off of him, and the boy across moved so sluggishly to remove his own, that Keith thought for a moment that he might have fainted inside of it.

And then they were both shirtless and beady with sweat, skin shining soft blue in echo of the teal stripe across the ship's walls. It complemented Lance's skin – on Keith's it looked foreign, off. Only after a moment Keith realized they were in a different place on the ship than the one they had left, sprawled on the floor of what he supposed was the ship's main deck.

It was a wide ring, silver like the rest of the ship. It had a strange control panel at its center, standing over the elevated stage they were lying against, and when Keith reached out to touch it, his hand went right through the pink screen. The outer half of the room, the part that was looking out to the stars, was framed by shiny glass. Vexper's guardian spirit was nowhere to be seen beyond it, stripes of golden stars taking her place.

“Nice ride,” Keith huffed in between breaths, cutting the magenta screen with the tips of his fingers a few more times. “Then again, you  _ are _ a prince.”

“I am not a prince,” Lance answered, sounding just as breathless.

He got up, stretching his torso back, skin taught against his ribs. Keith, in turn, shifted in his place atop the smooth stage, leaning forward on his knees. He thought the Altean would enjoy that, looking down at someone. He imagined he didn't do it for a long while.

But the Altean boy just fell back next to him with a huff, cupping his chin with the heels of his palms, looking ahead gravely, like he was looking at an approaching storm. The only remaining part of his suit, silky blue pants, were hugging his legs loosely. He would appear utterly ridiculous like that, half-dressed and battered, if not for the soft-blue Altean markings scattered on his back in intricate patterns, complementing the half-moons on his cheeks and his fancy trousers. He looked simple that way, down-to-earth, humble. Only then, like a joke only he would laugh at, Keith considered that he really might not be a prince. He even thought he might tell him that.

Instead, he said, “What's with the glowing back tattoos?”

Lance gave him a face. “What is it with the search for justice?” he retorted in the same spirit, and it was Keith's turn to return a sour face.

They sat in silence for a moment, staring at the air, until Lance spoke again. “I despise doing this just as much as you,” he huffed.

“I highly doubt that.” Keith crossed his arms, stretching his legs out. His dirty work boots appeared unfit on that pearly ship. “Vexper said you were looking for peace.”

“This war has destroyed my home, Keith of the stars,” he said, brow furrowed low, grave. “It has wiped out my people, my culture, my family. Of course I want to end it. But I never could – not on my own. I'm just another war orphan.”

“What help will a rogue asteroid miner be?” Keith said, bitter. “I'm not even full Galra. We're no match for Zarkon's armies.”

Another beat of silence. Keith knew he was right – he only wished it made him feel better.

“I despise this just as much as you,” Lance repeated.

That didn't make him feel any better, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> expect the next chapter soon (and i really mean soon this time sdjlkfghj)! pls leave kudos/comments if this fic has your uwus!


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